


Dress Sense

by PrettyArbitrary



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 6000 words of PWP, Fingerfucking, Hush or they'll hear you, M/M, Oh and mirrors, Semi-Public Sex, Suit Porn, clothes!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock only wants the same thing everyone wants:  to dress John up in a £1000 suit and then strip it right back off him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress Sense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Random_Nexus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/gifts).



> FINALLY DONE. Geez. This was _supposed_ to be just a short porny bit of fluff to ~~bribe~~ thank Random_Nexus for getting a chapter of one of her WIPs up so quickly.
> 
> All the love to belovedmuerto and thisprettywren, for beta duties and putting up with my hemming and hawing. I owe both of you a beta job any time you want one!
> 
> For inspiration for the visuals in this fic, check out the 'Martin Freeman in a classy bastard of a suit' pic that kicked this story off for me: <http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/moslive/article-563570/Martin-Freeman-life-shouldnt-just-day-office.html>
> 
> Since I wanted him in a waistcoat, however, the suit Sherlock puts John in is a different specimen from the same tailor. To see it, go to [Mark Powell's site](http://www.markpowellbespoke.co.uk/), to the 'spring/summer' ready-to-wear gallery. It's the fifth one from the left, gray with a waistcoast, though John wears it in a paler grey with a dark shirt.

"When you said you wanted to dress me, Sherlock, I thought you meant _in the morning._ Not…" John gestured hopelessly around the expensive tailor's shop he'd been led to like a sheep to slaughter. "You deliberately misled me!"

"You predictably misconstrued!" Sherlock kept John tucked up against him with a grip on his belt, his knuckles pressing into the small of John's back. He seemed convinced that John would try to make a break for it the minute he let go...which was fair enough, since John was keeping a weather eye out for escape routes.

John was open to pretty much any kind of oddity within the walls of 221b. When he'd thought it was just between them, he hadn't seen the harm in agreeing to play dress-up. If Sherlock had a good time, then what could it hurt? And, alright, maybe he'd been a bit charmed by the idea of Sherlock showing that much interest in the mundane details of his life. Only, apparently nothing John owned was _good_ enough. Or maybe it was the going out in public, or some kind of shopping kink, but the upshot was that John had not signed on for a lark that involved spending money in pursuit of his public humiliation.

Except that he had, in the end. Partly because Sherlock threatened to drag him here in handcuffs, but more than that, because he had refused to let it drop. Sherlock so seldom set his heart on something John could give him that the only thing to do had been to try not to let on how impossible it was to say no. Besides, he’d looked a little too entertained by the idea of the handcuffs.

Which didn't mean John had to be happy about it. "I can't be held responsible for the workings of your brain," Sherlock pushed on, trampling his attempts to get a word in edgewise. " _You agreed to the terms_ when we-"

"Alright, yes! But-" Passing a tailor's dummy garbed in cashmere, John half-turned in Sherlock's hold to keep it in view. "Sherlock, how much do these suits _cost?_ " That bothered him more than the spectacle they were making, if he had to be honest. The thought of having several hundred quid thrown away on him for something as frivolous as fancy clothes made his stomach clench.

Which Sherlock had to know, just as he knew he'd already won this argument. His mouth formed a thin satisfied arc. "It doesn't matter. I'll have you in one before we leave here."

In a fine display of impropriety, John found himself herded to the suit racks. Sherlock wouldn't trust him out of arm's reach, which made embarrassingly close quarters for two grown men in a communal venue. One long arm hooked around John's waist to forestall any self-conscious attempts to slink clear while Sherlock held suits up against him. "What do you think of waistcoats?"

John shrugged. "They're...classy, I suppose. A bit old-fashioned, though, aren't they?" They reminded him of Mycroft and darkened warehouses. It might be cruel to say so...which held its appeal. He considered the pros versus cons of inflicting mental trauma on Sherlock in this mood.

Sherlock turned a pitying look on him. "If it's not crocheted, you don't know how it works, do you?"

"I do own suits, Sherlock!"

The sniff he received betrayed Sherlock's usually well-concealed snobbery. "No, you own office uniforms. _That,_ " he flicked his fingers towards a chocolate brown pinstripe with an eggplant shirt and marigold tie which adorned the world's best-dressed shop mannequin, "is a suit."

John regarded it in horror. It wasn't that it looked bad, but those colours, on him? "I'd look like a clown."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not proposing we put you in _that_ , John. The cut favours height you haven't got and it's clearly meant for a man of more robust colouring."

John stared. It had to be a superpower to be that insulting without even trying. A light grey pinstripe got slapped against his chest. "Yes, perfect."

John slanted him a sceptical look. "I always thought grey washed me out."

" _Trust_ me, John." Sherlock leant in playfully. "I know far more about you looking good than you ever will." Honestly, _such_ a prat. Hiding a smile, John sidled away to put a few respectable inches between them, but surrendered to the guiding presence of a warm hand on his back.

Its partner shuffled through hangers like a dealer shuffling cards. John soon found his arms piled with four different specimens of sartorial extravagance, all in similar shades of light to medium grey. He couldn't spot what attracted Sherlock to the suits he pulled, but the fabrics were luxurious. Even bundled like this, John could see how well they draped, and Sherlock had chosen them all in fine matte worsteds with subtle textures that had John itching to feel them.

Their next stop was shirts, which were folded on a series of shelves lit like a jewellery display.

John looked them over in a certain amount of awe. He'd resigned himself to repressing the thought of how much the suit was going to cost, but surely Sherlock didn't intend to spring for the entire kit? "These must be 200 quid a pop! Sherlock, you can't spend this kind of money on me!"

"I'm not." Smugness simmered in his voice. "Just because you're the one wearing the clothes doesn't mean they're for you." He snapped a sapphire blue shirt off the shelf with a deft wrist-flick that unfurled it over John's hands. "Now tell me _that's_ not a fantastic idea."

The fabric did feel amazing against John's skin, cool and lavishly soft. "Don't I get a say in this?" he tried again, stroking the cloth.

"No." Sherlock yanked the shirt away, transforming it back into a crisply folded package with a series of occult gestures. "Too bright for you." Fingers spread like alien sensors, he tracked the shelves over and down to hover over its cousin in navy blue. Holding it up to John, he let out a soft ‘ah.'

He thumped it into John's chest to make him hold it, then turned him toward a mirror. "Look at that," he purred in John's ear.

John looked. The colour was flattering, he had to admit. It did nice things for his eyes.

"Tie," Sherlock murmured throatily. John met his eyes questioningly in the mirror, feeling a little more charitable towards this mad outing than he had a few minutes ago. Sherlock grinned in approval, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to move him along.

This time, John let him get away with it. It was still a bit PDA for his tastes, and the idea of exorbitant sums being spent on him still drove him off his nut, but he was powerless to resist anything that could put that glowing smile on Sherlock's face. Besides, he'd never worn anything this fine in his life. It couldn't hurt to at least see what the whole getup would look like.

Ties were sorted by colour along the back wall. Making a beeline for the darker end of the blues, Sherlock started flicking through the display.

"I rather like that," John offered, pointing out a bluish-black one whose metallic stitching glittered as it moved in the light. He smiled a little at Sherlock's pleased nod.

"Not bad, John." Sherlock lifted a hand to take it, then changed direction mid-reach, stretching sideways for something else he'd spotted. The tie he retrieved poured out into his hands in a liquid shimmer of a blue at once both deep and vibrant, reminding John of the inner light of a dark sapphire ring his mother had loved.

Sherlock lifted his arm up to let the tie swing free by John's face, staring at him with the look of revelation he wore when the secrets of a case unfolded for him. Like he was seeing John for the first time.

That blazing focus burned everything else to insignificance. By the time he shook himself from his daze, Sherlock had ceased to be present. John had to step around a few kiosks and display tables to spot his friend up front, where he’d swapped out the blue shirt for a charcoal grey one and stopped to have a word with the tailor. He acknowledged John's attention with a cheeky wink. John resolutely did not grin. It would only encourage him.

When Sherlock headed back in John's direction, all sauntering angular grace, it struck John how seldom he actually saw Sherlock walk. But when did John get to watch him for more than a few steps? Usually he was either at Sherlock's side, or distracted by the running. It was still fresh, how those lean hips rolled as he walked, the way his trousers pulled across his thighs and calves, the easy swing of his shoulders and arms. The careless power of it simmered in John’s blood. Sherlock never looked more fantastic than when his inner predator shone through.

Sherlock dropped the new shirt on top of the garments John already held, then breached John's personal space to drape the tie around his neck with deliberate care. That simmer in John’s blood deepened at the feel of his body heat and the brushes along his neck and jaw. Sherlock tugged on the loose ends of the tie hard enough to sway John even closer before he let go. "Come on."

Linking their arms, he escorted John to the changing rooms. There were two, each about two meters to a side and nicely appointed with a leather parson's chair, a full-length triple mirror and, to John's relief, a full door. Bloody curtains always left a man thinking they’d be tugged aside at any second. Sherlock swung it closed behind them while John hung up the suits and shook the stiffness out of his arms.

A long arm darted past for a two-button platinum grey number with a smoky texture that John quite fancied. "This one." When John accepted it, his personal space immediately filled up again with Sherlock, six inches away and undoing his buttons. He smiled at John slyly. "Your hands seem to be full."

Sherlock's knuckles grazing lazily down John's chest and stomach lent a whole new perspective on a room in which to get undressed. "Take off your shoes," he murmured, low and rounded. His hands dropped still lower to undo John's trousers. John spared a quick glance down to make sure the pants stayed in place, and caught Sherlock's amused smirk on the way back up.

"Prat."

"I'm just helping, John," Sherlock said archly, then reached forward to slide John's shirt back over his shoulders and down his arms with far more concentration than the task called for. The purposeful glide of Sherlock's palms along his skin tingled in John’s lips. When he parted them, Sherlock lowered his head to help himself.

John meant to push him away, only his mouth seemed intent on keeping Sherlock's tongue. "This," he whispered when he pulled back enough to breathe, "is not conducive to the task at hand."

"I disagree." The little smile Sherlock flicked at him made John want to lick at the twitching corners of his lips. "You're now in the perfect state for what comes next."

He stepped back and held out the suit trousers. John couldn't help but laugh. "You are such a twat."

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed. "But I'm lovable."

John laughed again and wobbled, stepping into the trousers. Sherlock provided stability with a hand on his shoulder. "Not really. I'm just insane."

"Even better. Sanity is boring." Once John pulled the trousers up, Sherlock brushed his hands aside in a wordless demand to do up the zip and side adjusters himself. Then he stepped back to take in the sight of John, in socks and £400 trousers and nothing else.

The sight of Sherlock's pupils snapping wide in those cold-burning eyes ought to go on the list of Wonders of the World. John turned to his own reflection with a bemused headshake. "I don't see it," he admitted. Sometimes he despaired of understanding what Sherlock saw when he looked out at the world.

"Of course not." John watched Sherlock step up behind him. His reflection bowed his head to place a wet, lingering kiss on the nape of John's neck. "You're terrible at observation."

John caught himself tilting his head forward in a wordless request for more. Sherlock knew damn well how that got to him. A second hot brush of lips and tongue made him shudder before Sherlock released him again. John pulled himself up and cleared his throat in an attempt to summon his retreating composure. "Alright, what next? The shirt?”

"Yes." Sherlock, who seemed barely affected, damn him, shook it out and held it up, giving it a matador’s twitch away from John’s reaching hand. "Face the mirror."

John manfully ignored the flush that'd begun to overtake his cheeks. "Should've done this first. I'll have to undo the trousers again to tuck it in."

"Yes, but I’d have been depriving myself of a noteworthy sight." Favouring John's reflection with a frankly licentious smirk, Sherlock guided John's arms back into the shirt sleeves and then drew the garment up over his shoulders just as meticulously as he'd taken the other one off.

Maybe it was Sherlock’s hands, or the texture of the fabric, but the slow glide of it reminded John of Sherlock’s bedsheets against his skin. And there went any hope of controlling his blush.

"What is it?" Sherlock studied him curiously.

His breath over John's shoulder did less than nothing to dispel the effect. John canted his head towards it. "It feels like...you."

"Like me." Sherlock's voice took a plunge down the register. "How so?"

"Like..." John sighed. Two bodies separated by a thin layer of expensive cotton. Warmth radiating through silk. Bare skin even more lush than the cloth Sherlock was dressing him in. "Like you, pressed against me."

In the next breath, he was wearing Sherlock. Sherlock was quivering, clutching with bare restraint under the veil that hid John’s sides and lower back. For a moment, it looked like the £200 shirt was about to become a casualty, till Sherlock pushed his forehead into John's shoulder and reined himself in with a palpable effort of will.

He felt amazing there, his hair tumbling down over John's collarbone. John reached up to stroke it while Sherlock's hands, once more under only slightly wavering control, drew spiralling lines of fire up John’s chest on pretext of doing up his placket. Then Sherlock opened John's trousers to tuck the shirttails in, elaborately pressing out creases over John's hips and arse till he had John squirming.

He rested his hands on John’s waist when he'd finished. John leaned back into that marvellous body and tried not to let on how much he’d come undone under all the buttoning. He had to admit, though, the light grey bottoms and charcoal top looked rather snappy. The shirt draped as though it had been melted over him. Sherlock spun him around for a once-over, smoothing the shirt down over John's shoulders and chest as though he couldn't quite keep himself from touching. John spotted a tremor in his hands, but his face held nothing but perfect composure.

"Good. Now the tie." Sherlock's voice buckled subtly. He drew his fingertips along John’s jaw to tilt his head up for more clearance, then set to work on the knot, eyes flicking between John's face and his own hands with the rapt interest he dedicated to hazardous chemicals. John felt every glance like moth wings dancing down his spine. With a shaky breath, Sherlock drew the knot home to nudge gently at the hollow of John's throat, and gave it one last flattening stroke down John's chest before he looked back up. Those moonlit eyes had gone ravenous black with arousal.

John immediately twisted towards the mirrors. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders. "No! Not yet." He reached a hand into a pocket and then held it out. "Take this."

A cufflink dropped into John's hand, sterling silver with a deep blue stone to match the tie that had Sherlock spellbound.

Pulling John's left hand to him, Sherlock fussed over the cuff, turning it back fastidiously and fastening it closed. John studied the effect. The blue and silver contrasted handsomely against the dark grey. He didn't know why he was surprised. Sherlock wore Savile Row to crime scenes. He had taste, when he chose to exercise it.

Well past fighting this by now, John did up the other cuff, then shrugged cooperatively into the waistcoat when it was held up for him. Its weight and warmth closed in on him as Sherlock did up the six buttons. The high neckline came to the crest of his breastbone, leaving only the first few inches of tie exposed, and only the collar of the shirt. It gripped him snugly about the ribs and waist. He shimmied in it a little, testing the give.

Sherlock licked his lips at the motion, but he reached out to tug the hem straight again. "You'll wrinkle it." His voice had pitched to a rumble that John could feel in his veins like a tongue. When he drew a breath, the waistcoat hugged him playfully.

Christ, when they got home, they were going to ravage each other.

Sherlock held up the jacket, turning John around to face the mirror as he tugged it up, letting him finally get a good look at himself.

Oh.

Sherlock reached around front to fasten the jacket's two buttons, then stayed there, arms possessively tight around John. He pressed his nose into the hair at John's temple. "Do you see?" he demanded quietly.

John blinked. "I...yes."

John knew what he looked like. He was no beast, but in a survey of words most applied to him by women, the leading contenders would be ‘steady,’ ‘comfortable,’ and ‘cute.’ His romantic successes had always been powered more by attitude than looks. But this...

Sherlock let go and stepped back to let John appreciate the full effect without him in the way. The jacket clung to him like a lover, revealing the trim lines of his chest, waist and hips more often hidden by his usual layers. The high cut of the waistcoat flattered his height, one solid sweep of fabric leading the eye up from feet to near his throat. The greys of the suit and shirt brought out the shades in his hair. And the tie, that deep sapphire fire that had Sherlock half out of his head, it turned his changeable hazel eyes the exact same molten midnight blue. It was...

"Gorgeous," Sherlock purred, practically sub-sonic, into the crescent of skin between John's collar and hairline. John found he couldn't deny it. Hell, if he were another bloke, _he'd_ want to shag himself.

John had never worn an outfit that made him feel fuckable before.

"So," he managed. "This is what all the fuss was about." Heat pulsed in his face. Ridiculous to be turned on by his own reflection, not to mention more than a touch vain, but Sherlock was watching him like it was exactly what he’d planned.

Sherlock had known. No wonder he'd been so intent on this crazy little adventure. And he'd been waiting for John to get it.

John liked their relationship. It wasn't traditional. It wasn't soppy. It was, on occasion, somewhat disturbing, which he counted largely as a plus. He never had to question whether Sherlock valued him; the man showed it on a regular basis in a thousand unconventional ways, from making tea to, well, this. But no effort could redress the fundamental imbalance between them. Namely, Sherlock was Sherlock. John’s sense of self-worth never flinched from a challenge, but there was no avoiding the fact that Sherlock was out of pretty much _everybody's_ league. Though John tried, every time they touched, talked, kissed, texted, or tumbled into bed, there was no silencing the little voice in the back of his head that wondered, _Why me?_

Sometimes it welled up in John's voice or eyes or body, and they couldn't stop from feeling it crackling in the gaps between them. Sherlock hated it, if possible, even more than John did, but he had no better answers for it.

So right now, to have this impossible man all over him and for once not to wonder what he could possibly see in John... His head spun, his skin tight and alive like the sweet early stages of inebriation. Sherlock looked just as drugged, pupils blown out and high spots of colour burning across his cheekbones.

"Okay," John capitulated breathlessly. "Long as you can make the rent, spend whatever you like on me."

Sherlock spun him around into his arms.

In sock feet, John came up an extra inch short on their height difference. That extravagant mouth was angled down toward him, just a few inches away. The urge to lick into it overwhelmed him, but he had to go up on his toes in order to reach, pushing into Sherlock's body for balance. Sherlock reeled him in with an approving hum, then hooked John's right thigh up around his hips for good measure, to guarantee he wouldn't go anywhere.

The stretch pulled John's suit taut, squeezing him firmly in a fabric fist from shoulders to hips. It paralyzed his diaphragm with lust.

Sherlock noticed— _naturally_ —and capitalized. John jolted when a hand cupped his arse and began kneading at him. Sherlock didn't let up till he had John squirming in his arms, the suit clasping him intimately with every movement. It felt obscene to be coiled around Sherlock like this, writhing against him from thigh to chest, in a _fitting room._ Sherlock’s hips rolled into John’s motions, quickly reducing him to whimpering into Sherlock's equally well-tailored shoulder.

"You seduced me," he whispered into the black merino.

"You're the one who always insists on being walked through my process." Sherlock's arousal turned his sneer into a sexy little pout that was too damn cute for John not to laugh at it. He got his head wrenched back by the hair for his sins. Sherlock never had taken well to being mocked, but then John had been mocking him with impunity for some time now. He met the acetylene glare with a challenging grin. _What do you think you’ll do about it, then?_

They were acting like a pair of rutting teenagers angling to get caught, but even the prim little Englishman that lived in John's head was running short on protests. The bottoms had dropped out of Sherlock's eyes. The vortex behind them roared around them both, waiting to pull John down the instant his grip slipped. Sherlock let go of John's hair to pull at the tie that had him so wound up, forcing John against him from belly to collarbones.

"John," he whispered in a voice like black treacle. "I'm going to make you come in this suit."

Hormones dealt John's bloodstream a stunning blow. Sherlock renewed his assault on John’s trouser fastenings, satisfied to take his staggered silence for consent. But the little Englishman in John’s head finally roused to point out the ignominy of being faced with someone else's upholstery-cleaning bill. John grabbed Sherlock's hair and forced his head up. "You," he breathed, " _are not_ going to jerk me off in a thousand quid suit that hasn't even been paid for yet."

Sherlock smirked again, unbearably smug, and fanned a pair of foil packets in John's face.

"You are _such_ a prat," John repeated feelingly.

"I'm beginning to think you've mistaken that word as a synonym for ‘genius.’" Fortunately for the shop's inhabitants, John was too distracted to reply. Sherlock kept John captive by his tie, careful to avoid crimping it, while his other hand trailed down to stroke John's perineum from behind. John had a humiliating suspicion that his movements could be best described as undulating, but he was helpless to stop.

"When you said," he gasped, "you'd have me in a suit before we left. I thought you meant. In the conventional sense."

"I told you I can't be held responsible for your misconceptions," Sherlock laughed unsteadily into his ear.

Diabolical fingers molested John along the thin, sensitive strip of his taint, writing on him in lines and swirls, while whole swathes of him stayed locked away from any contact but the clothes Sherlock had dressed him in. It was frustrating and perversely exposed. He felt pinned by the clasp of the clothes around his contours as though it were Sherlock's own body pressing down on him. His head fell to Sherlock's shoulder with a groan, hands fisting into the other man's own unreasonably expensive shirt to knead helplessly at him through the burgundy cloth. Sherlock's responding moan burned a path straight down through his centre. "I really do feel like I'm wearing you," he whispered dizzily. He was wearing Sherlock's clothes, Sherlock's skin, Sherlock's choices, Sherlock's image of who he was. The John Watson Sherlock knew, whom John was meeting for the first time.

Sherlock swallowed, looking like he'd just taken a blow to the head.

Shirt was nice, but skin was nicer. John fumbled for Sherlock's buttons, wanting as much of raw, naked Sherlock as he could get. Christ, but he loved Sherlock's body. He had deceptively pristine skin. Honestly, it was ridiculous that a man who exposed himself to chemicals, violence and the London sewer system on a regular basis should look like an Italian master had carved him out of marble. But fun as it was to touch, John liked what it covered even more. Sherlock was layers of whipcord muscle banding a scaffold of sharp-edged bone; fierce, hard, and aggressively male. For all he scoffed about ‘transport,’ he kept his body honed to match his mind, with the fitness of a man who ran for his life and fought for it. The army had taught John a fine appreciation for utility over form. First and foremost, Sherlock's body helped him survive, and that made it beautiful.

Trapped against him, John rubbed his cheek desperately against Sherlock's exposed chest. His tongue mapped the topography of sternum and pectorals while his own rather damned clever fingers, thank you, navigated with eternal inquisitiveness back along Sherlock's ribs to the deeper cut of his spine. Sherlock preened under his attentions like a cat, swaying with pleasure at the rake and dig of John's hungry touches.

Satisfied that John was inclined to keep himself in place, Sherlock finally released the tie to pull something from his pocket and fiddle with it behind John's back. John spotted the little tube getting tucked back into Sherlock's jacket just before startlingly slick fingers returned to his perineum, gliding back and up till they nestled in against the tight ring of muscle in the cleft of his arse.

His nerve endings lit up like gleeful, lascivious fairy lights at his penetration. Sherlock's grip tightened on him at arse and neck, swaying them both into an unorthodox dance step that ended side-on to the triple mirrors, treating them to multiple angles of the compromising tableau they made.

They were a proper tease of a picture; two men locked in a passionate embrace, everything explicit hidden by the fall of their own half-stripped clothing. Still leaning into Sherlock, John watched his reflection nuzzle with shocking brazenness at Sherlock’s chest between the folds of his shirt. Good god, did he really look like that? He licked a broad stripe from Sherlock’s left nipple to his right, just to marvel at the debauchery of it. Sherlock rumbled appreciatively and gave John a squeeze with the hand fanned wide over his arse. John wriggled a bit, enjoying the greedy bite of Sherlock’s fingertips where they dimpled his skin, and then whimpered a little as it shifted the fingers Sherlock had buried in him.

John watched the mirrors, fascinated by how the tantalizing promise of their reflections made the things they were doing to each other feel more intense and illicit. It seemed so innocent, somehow, all smooth skin and dishabille and bared, thrown-back throats compared to the sticky heat and sweat and hungry pleasure tucked just beyond the mirror’s sight. Inside him, two of those long, elegant fingers probed curiously at his most sensitive spots. The little match-strikes of pleasure sent his hips twitching erratically against Sherlock’s where, discretion ensured by their own bodies, they rocked impatiently together. Sherlock’s naked cock pushed almost painfully into the lower swell of John’s abdomen, heavy and burning hot against him. John rubbed the head of his own prick along Sherlock’s perineum in the crease between his thighs, racking him with gorgeous shudders that John admired in the glass.

Sherlock caught him watching. He slanted John a look in the glass that was lazy with gloating and, with a twist of his hand, stretched him wide, turning the picture a whole lot less innocent.

John froze, huffing, his body insisting on a moment to accommodate to the new demands. Sherlock must have been able to feel his tension, because he held still, letting John adjust and drink in the astonishing sight of his own body held open on those impossible fingers. John leaned his cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder, mesmerized by the decadence of his reflection. He knew what Sherlock looked like when John was in him, of course, but Sherlock and hedonism went together naturally. He’d never imagined his own body could look so…wanton.

The insistent stretch of his entrance sent sparks of electricity shivering up and down his spine in time with his heartbeat. He was beginning to think moving sounded like a fantastic idea when, with his usual facility for mind-reading, Sherlock did it for him. John hissed between his teeth as those fingers began to rotate slowly deeper, his hips grinding down on them in unthinking demand. Sherlock’s other hand clamped down on the back of his neck, preventing him from looking away from the sight of him fucking himself on Sherlock, breathless with the feel of the suit pulling at his body with every movement. He felt his face heat, halfway between embarrassed and unbearably turned on.

The hard knobs of knuckles flexing and raking inside him threatened to steal the last of John’s control, but he’d be damned if Sherlock’s wasn’t coming along for the ride. John tipped his face up to lap at Sherlock's jaw, exaggerating the slick and curl of his tongue over the hard angle of it. He moaned at the delicious rasp of near-invisible stubble on his tongue before he even thought twice about making noise.

The sound brought Sherlock around to descend jealously on his mouth. John caught his lips with equal ferocity, and was glad for the impromptu gag when those goddamned fingers pinned his hips against Sherlock’s and bent him backwards till he could hear the seams of the jacket creak. He wanted to shout. He could barely breathe. Just as well Sherlock was swallowing all his noises, or he’d probably sound utterly embarrassing. The strain of the position held him in place, forced down hard onto the invading digits while the suit clutched at him like a full-body hand-job. He’d never felt such sympathy for the letters on their mantel.

When Sherlock’s fingers began moving purposefully inside him, John made a strangled noise and ripped his mouth away. “You…wanker.” A little keening noise bubbled up from his throat as Sherlock kept going. Yes, he did sound utterly ridiculous.

“Shhh.” Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s in a kiss that would’ve been sweetly chaste if he weren’t grinning.

“Don’t. I can’t-” Held tight in this stance, the tension of his body magnified the smallest twitch, and Sherlock had him so sensitive from all the fingering. Sherlock kept going, using his fingers to manoeuvre their cocks into alignment while John thrashed and hissed over-stimulated vulgarities at him. The bastard only got off on how much he was working John up.

Christ. When they got back to Baker Street, he was going to exact so much payback.

The image they made in the mirrors, John arched backwards and writhing in Sherlock's embrace like a girl on the cover of a bodice ripper, would've been mortifying if John had any thought to spare for it. Instead, he mustered his remaining presence of mind to slip the little tube of lubricant from Sherlock's jacket pocket while Sherlock was busy ravishing him. Stealth was pointless, of course; Sherlock's eyes flicked down the moment John's fingers slipped into his pocket, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of John. He settled for biting John's ear while John worked a finger into him.

He made sure to put extra wriggle on it. Feeling Sherlock squirming helplessly against him made for a nice change. "God, you feel incredible," John whispered. He did: hot and tight and a little shivery. That was his pulse, John realized, fluttering against John's fingers. Oh god, his own had to be thrumming like a hummingbird’s around Sherlock’s.

"Cheating," Sherlock hissed, mouth sliding against John's sweat-beaded temple.

"I'm cheating? _You,_ " John pushed back onto the digits invading his own body, "you locked me into this. I can't even _move_ without-" He broke off into incoherent consonants as Sherlock yanked up on the back of his jacket collar, clinching the suit around him like a strait jacket while he corkscrewed his fingers deep into John. John choked back a cry, followed by Sherlock as their cocks dragged together, John’s hips snapping away and then back into the stimulation so fast his abdominals twinged.

John did his best to return the favour, but his reach wasn't good enough at this angle. As a positive, it left Sherlock struggling on John’s fingers in frustration. On the other hand, he took it out on John, which…well, was another positive, if a somewhat masochistic one. He crooked his fingers inside John's body, stroking his knuckles relentlessly against John's interior walls till he had him panting for it. The suit squeezed with every inhale, leaving him shaking at the control Sherlock had over his breathing. It felt distressingly good. Agonizingly intimate. John wondered if this was what it felt like to wear a corset.

Grinding against John, desperate for friction, Sherlock buried his ragged breathing against John's neck, nipping mindlessly at the trails of sweat on his throat in the hidden spaces between skin and cloth. John bit a trail of red marks across Sherlock's chest in response, jerking helplessly between the stimulation to his prick and his prostate. As though he didn’t have enough of a grip on John yet, Sherlock released his hold on the jacket to worm his free hand in between clothes and skin, pushing into the hollow at the small of John's back with a delicious frictionless glide of skin on secret skin.

John struggled in the waistcoat’s tight grasp. It felt like he was being touched everywhere. There wasn’t an inch of his body that wasn’t alight with it, dragging and squeezing around and inside him. He wrapped one leg around Sherlock’s hips again and clutched him close, craving as many points of contact between them as possible. This bloody man. So impossible. So gorgeous. John wanted nothing but Sherlock on every inch of him.

Sherlock moaned against his neck, hips jerking hard. “Yes. John…” John whimpered back, a passable stand-in for any words he could’ve found for the occasion, and held Sherlock as tight to himself as he could.

Ecstasy tightened its grip on them, driving away coordinated thought. Their bodies hardened against each other, driving them apart into their own skins as they shook, fighting to stay moulded together against the dividing push of their own muscles. Their fingers scrabbled and bit painfully, seeking the intimate, naked interior of blood and bone under cloth and skin.

Resistance only fed the flood. They burned in each other's slick heat and then came back down into their senses, blowing like racehorses, trembling, and delectably sore.

It'd hurt later. For now it was a sweet echo of what they’d just done.

The tendons of John’s hand protested when he pried it off the back of Sherlock’s neck. He grimaced at the marks he’d left. “Hell, you’ll be livid with bruises by tomorrow.”

Sherlock shrugged, working his hand out from under John’s shirt, though he seemed to be in no hurry to remove his fingers from their place nestled inside him. John wriggled on them a bit, and closed his eyes against the sparkling aftershocks of his orgasm. Sherlock tugged him in close, just to hold him. John melted into him. If neither of them ever moved again, he could’ve been happy.

“We need to get on with things,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s chest after a moment. “Before the staff come to check whether we fell in a hole.”

Sherlock grumbled against him, but finally worked his fingers gently out of John and let him go. “You’ve got three more suits to try on,” he reminded.

John laughed giddily. “Jesus, I don’t think I can do that again.” Of course. They could be in here for half an hour before anyone began wondering.

Sherlock grinned at John, looking a little manic himself. “Mmm, too bad, because this one is coming home with us. Once we get it properly tailored, of course.” He tugged thoughtfully at the cuff of the jacket. “It fits quite nicely, but it could use a few tweaks here and there.”

“Never mind. Come here.” Sherlock was a gloriously debauched mess. Suddenly John wanted nothing more in the world than to be the one who tidied him up. He could develop a taste for this clothing thing.

Sherlock insisted on taking the suit off, but John was allowed to dress himself in peace while Sherlock rehung it. Once he’d got his trousers back on, John sat in the chair with a sigh. “That was mad.” Not that he was complaining, but how they’d managed to avoid making enough noise to attract attention would forever remain a mystery.

Sherlock straddled his lap and sat down on him. “You love mad, though.”

“Apparently I do.” John smiled, and stroked a hand down Sherlock’s arm to cup his elbow. “Thank you for this. It meant a lot to me. I’m sorry I didn’t understand.”

Sherlock lifted his hands to trail his fingers down either side of John’s face. “This is you, John. It’s always you. I can’t explain it. I’m so very good with words and yet I find I don’t have any for you. But this is what I see. And so much more. Maybe one day I’ll find a way to show you all of it.” He dipped his fingertips into the collar of John’s terribly ordinary button-down and flicked the tabs wide to place a kiss at the hollow of his throat.

Then he stood with a sly smile and held his hands out to pull John to his feet. “Come along, John. Let’s go spend exorbitant sums of money on you.”

**Author's Note:**

> For those who're curious, 'ready to wear' means a suit that was put together by hand, but to generic measurements. When a customer buys one, it is then fitted to their specific form. Tailors offer ready-to-wear suits as a somewhat less costly and time-intensive option than true bespoke, but they're still very high quality. (The other varieties of tailored suiting are made-to-measure, where an existing pattern is used but the suit is cut and stitched to fit the individual, and true bespoke, where everything is created from scratch for the client, from the pattern up.)
> 
> Mark Powell is Mr. Freeman's favorite tailor, and also he is awesome, because he's got this 1930s mod sensibility that sometimes verges on into steampunk. His shop is located in Soho at the same location as the tailor in the fic (though I made no effort to otherwise match the fictional tailor with the actual Mr. Powell).


End file.
